


Dealing With Sherlock, or 5 Times John Watson Wasn't a Complete Idiot and 1 Time He Was

by LoLoGreeneVines



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asperger Syndrome, Autism, Gen, Johnlock is an epic bromance, except when he isn't, john is brilliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-05
Updated: 2012-07-05
Packaged: 2017-11-09 05:57:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/452114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoLoGreeneVines/pseuds/LoLoGreeneVines
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is usually very good at dealing with Sherlock's peculiarities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sensory Overload - Sound

1.

Sherlock delicately moved the sheet of filter paper from the worktop and scraped the damp purple residue into a porcelain crucible, careful not to set off the volatile compound. His efforts were nearly scuppered, however, when the door to the living room banged open and John shuffled in looking distinctly dishevelled wearing a dark green dressing gown, his hair sticking out in every direction.

"I woke you," Sherlock said, glancing up and noting his flatmate's half-open eyes and exasperated expression.

"Great deduction, yeah," John retorted moodily. "What was all the shouting about?"

Sherlock returned to his dark red paste. "The ammonia annoyed me."

John rolled his eyes. "Of course it did," he said, resignation creeping into his voice. He gestured at the mess of equipment littering the kitchen. "What's all this for, anyway? We're not working on a case at the moment."

"Precisely," Sherlock responded, astonished that John hadn't made the connection. "I was bored." As he said the last word, he smacked his hand against the worktop and there was a small 'bang' and a miniature puff of purple smoke an inch away from where his hand made contact with the surface. "Oh, and apparently I spilled some," he added, observing John's jump at the explosion and the way his tired eyes flew open in alarm. "You might not want to come any closer."

If John's eyes were wide before this statement they could only have been described as great blue saucers of terror now."Sherlock, if this is dangerous enough to warrant a warning like that I think I deserve to be told what the hell you have been doing in our kitchen. What is that purple stuff?"

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, nothing to worry about, just some nitrogen triiodide." He paused for a second to glance at John, whose features were still clouded by an expression of incomprehension. Sherlock's own face lit up, he never turned down an opportunity to extol the virtues of chemistry when it presented itself. "It's a contact explosive, John! So volatile when dried you can set it off with a feather! You've already seen the reaction it produces and I'm sure you'll agree that it's absolutely intri..."

"So what you're saying is that you've cooked up some purple stuff that makes loud noises when touched?" Sherlock scowled at the oversimplification of the beautiful and fascinating science, but eventually conceded to nod. It was good to encourage John's ability to summarise, Sherlock acknowledged that this ability of his friend's often came in useful when he was trying to piece together the big picture out of smaller details.

"Indeed, John," Sherlock said. "The thing is, for the nitrogen triiodide to be explosive it must be dehydrated into crystalline form." As he said this, a pair of plastic goggles appeared in his hand from somewhere among the mess on the worktop, and Sherlock lit a match and held it over a Bunsen burner John hadn't noticed the crucible was being suspended over.

"You're not seriously going to put this extremely explosive stuff above a gas flame?" John asked incredulously.

"It's a few grams of contact explosive, John, not a block of semtex. Besides which, I'd rather like it to crystallise quickly so that I might proceed with having fun with it," Sherlock replied, before turning on the gas tap and turning his attention to the rapidly drying out compound in the porcelain pot suspended in the centre of the roaring flame. He barely had time to clap his hands and grin about how quickly it was drying out before there was an almighty 'BANG' and a huge puff of purple smoke, as the crucible shattered and the Bunsen burner (along with an assortment of other equipment) was thrown off the worktop, extinguishing itself due to the fact that its gas supply had been cut off.

Sherlock just stood in the middle of the purple cloud for a second, completely overwhelmed by the assortment of deafening noises, noxious fumes and unnaturally-coloured cloud. He was so consumed by the plethora of unpleasant sensations he didn't even realise he was practically coughing his lungs out until there were a few crashes and the hissing of the escaping gas disappeared. John's hand grasped his arm, dragging him out of the cloud and into the living room, miniature explosions under their feet adding to the din every time either of them stepped on a tiny amount of the dust Sherlock had clumsily spilled all over the kitchen floor.

However, as soon as the pair had reached the sofa and Sherlock had sat down, the smoke detector decided that the cacophonous orchestra of explosions and various instruments breaking as they toppled off the counters wasn't complete until it had added its own infernal beeping to the mix. Sherlock scrunched his eyes closed and clamped his hands over his ears in an attempt to shut out the world as the sensory war was occurring around him, but he still found that there was just too much going on for him to cope with.

Sherlock was dimly aware that in addition to the ear-splitting beeping of the smoke detector (which was starting to set off even more explosions by itself) and the pungent iodine fumes, the words "make it stop, John" were falling out of his own mouth, a desperate plea for his flatmate to make the bad sensations to go away.

He curled up on the sofa, hands still clamped to his ears, and after a few seconds he realised that the window had been flung open and the smell had gone away. Sherlock also observed that the end of the sofa he wasn't currently occupying was being stood on. Five seconds later the beeping went away and Sherlock opened his eyes to see his friend standing over him, nine-volt battery in hand.

"I daresay you can cope with whatever is left of the dust in the kitchen? Though honestly, after all that I'd have expected it all to have been set off," John said, as Sherlock sat up.

"I can handle that," Sherlock said, smiling uncertainly at John in gratitude.

"Are you going to be all right, now? Is it okay if I go and take my shower?" John asked anxiously, watching Sherlock as though he could return to his meltdown at any minute.

"I'll be fine. You take your shower," Sherlock responded, pressing his hands together to give himself something to concentrate on and prevent the immediate memory from overloading him again. John gripped his shoulder reassuringly before walking out of the door, and as Sherlock watched his retreating back he reflected on how lucky he was to have found a friend like John Watson.


	2. Social Anxiety

2.

"No, John, I'd really rather not go to your surgery's Christmas party," Sherlock said, cradling his violin in his lap and plucking the strings absentmindedly.

"Why on Earth not? You don't hate Sarah and she'd like to see you again."

"Of course she wouldn't," Sherlock retorted sharply and gave the D string a particularly unpleasant twang. John shook his head. "Why, why does she?"

"Because I'm her friend and you're my flatmate, you dolt," John said. "Now, I've already told her you're coming so there's no way you can get out of it."

Sherlock immediately brought his impromptu pizzicato to a close and proceeded to panic internally. Oh no he's serious and he really intends to drag me along and I hate large groups of people I don't know or that I do know for that matter and parties are too noisy and full of stupid people partaking in mindless behaviour I really have no time for and what if I'm forced to socialise with idiots I have nothing to talk about with and...

"Sherlock," John's voice permeated Sherlock's mental flailing. "Please. I know you're unhappy with situations like this but it would mean a lot to me if you came."

Well, when he puts it that way...

"No." Sherlock responded stubbornly, setting the violin down so it was resting against his chair and folding his arms.

An hour later the pair found themselves in the back of a taxi bound for the surgery.

"You tricked me," Sherlock grumbled, pouting.

"If the greatest mind in London is fooled by his flatmate kidnapping a sandwich bag and holding it in the taxi just out of arm's reach, it's hardly my fault. You're an idiot, you know that?" Sherlock's scowl deepened. "What's in the bag, anyway?"

"Gall bladders. Early birthday present from Molly, because she already promised me half a dozen kneecaps for Christmas," Sherlock responded promptly. Sherlock was certain he heard a short stream of uttered profanities and the taxi lurched, as though the driver had missed a gear and brought the clutch up too quickly. He and John shared a grin as the taxi driver shot them an appalled look in the mirror.

"I'm not really sure why they're holding the party at the surgery," John said, switching to a safer subject so as not to give the taxi driver any more excuses to throw them out.

"Obvious," Sherlock replied. "The surgery is trying to save money, hence why they're not hiring a hall, and there must not be enough people attending to warrant needing a space larger than the empty waiting room."

"I know that," John said. "It just feels strange having a social event in the place where I work. That's all."

Sherlock frowned. "I don't understand."

"I wouldn't expect you to, your office is the entire bloody city," John said. As Sherlock's left eyebrow flew up, the taxi pulled in alongside the pavement outside the surgery. Sherlock tried to remain in the taxi, intending to order the cabbie to take him right back to Baker Street, but as soon as it became obvious John wasn't going to let him he scrambled out quickly and left John to pay the fare. After all, John was the one who wanted to be here in the first place.

"Let's get this over with then," Sherlock said grumpily, as the pair walked (or, in Sherlock's case, dragged his heels) into the building.

As soon as they were spotted, a gaggle of girls (two nurses, a GP and a receptionist, judging by their nails and jewellery) engulfed John and Sherlock was effectively shunted to the corner of the waiting room where all of the chairs had been relocated to. Sherlock found he was absolutely fine with this arrangement, as he certainly had no desire to make any sort of disastrous attempt at conversation with a load of drunk doctors.

Sherlock simply sat in the corner, wishing it wasn't so loud and making deductions about the other partygoers (Glasses the GP's wife's mother has just died and the funeral's next week, Ginger the nurse is working overtime and taking care of a new baby, good luck to her, she looks about ready to drop dead from exhaustion, and tipsy Frizzy in admin is married but has a very loose definition of the word "marriage"). As soon as Sherlock thought the latter, Frizzy evidently noticed that the antisocial alien in the corner was watching her and sauntered over, drink in hand and a big smile on her face.

"All right, handsome?" she giggled, sitting down next to Sherlock, who wrinkled his nose in disgust and thought 'BEGGAR OFF YOU SILLY BINT' as loudly as he could.

"Does your husband know you're trying to pull strangers?" Sherlock enquired coldly as Frizzy's smile faltered, only to be replaced by some infuriating expression Sherlock couldn't quite describe.

"I don't think I've seen you around here before. You accompanying somebody?" Frizzy persisted. Sherlock frowned, eager for this woman to go away.

"Yes, as a matter of fact," Sherlock retorted. "I am accompanying John Watson." Frizzy's smile completely disappeared. Good, you realise I am unattainable. I don't even care that you have come to the wrong conclusion.

"Oh, I wasn't aware he was..."

"Oh, he's not, as he vehemently protests at every opportunity," Sherlock said icily. "John Watson is my partner in that we work together, when he's not here at least, and we share a flat." He is also my best friend and the only person here worth talking to. Now please leave me alone before I get too tempted to shatter your glass and stab you with it myself.

"That's nice. Hey, do you want me to get him for you? You look lonely over here on your own," she said, an uncertain smile creeping back onto her face.

YES yes go and fetch him I want John he always says the right thing and gives me company unlike the rest of you moronic cretins. "If you wouldn't mind," Sherlock said, giving Frizzy an insincere smile. She hurried off into the crowd and returned a minute later with John.

"Is everything okay, Sherlock?" John asked, as Frizzy melted back into the swarm.

"No," Sherlock replied sulkily. "I'm miserable. I hate places like this where people I don't know try to talk to me when I just don't want them to and they won't get the message and leave me alone." John tilted his head and frowned slightly. "Please just stay with me, John? We can discuss anything you want, I just don't want to have to converse with a load of idiots I really don't care about. Please don't just abandon me among these strangers, you did drag me here, after all..."

Sherlock could see John's features softening as he realised that Sherlock wasn't just manipulating him for the sake of it - he genuinely did have a problem with situations like this.

"You know what?" John said, smiling reassuringly at Sherlock. "I can do that." He sat down in the seat that had previously been occupied by Frizzy.

"Okay, what would you like to talk about?" Sherlock asked.

"Why don't you deduce as much as you can about these people and I can tell you if you're right. Assuming it's information I'm privy to, of course," John suggested.

Sherlock clapped his hands together and instantly embarked on the lecture he'd been itching to give since walking in through the door. As he spoke, and John nodded encouragingly at Sherlock's deductions, the consulting detective recognised a sensation he wasn't inordinately familiar with: gratitude. He was grateful to John Watson for bearing with him when nobody else would.


	3. Infodump

3.

Sherlock withdrew a spatula from the plastic bottle he was holding and was just about to put the fine grey dust into a beaker when the laboratory door opened and John walked in, accompanied by a small child.

"Sherlock..." he began, but Sherlock had already glanced at the boy and interrupted John.

"Molly's nephew. Why are you babysitting Molly's nephew?" he asked accusingly. The boy took one look at Sherlock and plodded over, eagerly examining the array of equipment on the desk.

"What? How did you... oh, well, Sherlock, this is Joseph. Molly asked me to keep an eye on him while she did a post-mortem. Apparently her sister is ill and couldn't get a babysitter, so she asked Molly to look after him for the day. This little guy has been very excited about his tour of the hospital." As if to prove John's point, Joseph took that moment to grab an empty test tube and jump up and down. "Don't do that, Joey," John said, glancing at Sherlock.

"No, let him. The hospital owns plenty of test tubes, the loss of one isn't going to be a problem. Well, it won't be my problem," Sherlock said, coldly, before returning to his bowl of reddish-brown dust he had retrieved from a crime scene the night before. He measured out eighty grams of the stuff and added it to the thirty grams of the silvery powder already in the beaker.

"Mister Scientist, what are you doing?" the boy piped up as John took a seat next to Sherlock. Sherlock grinned.

"I'm mixing aluminium powder and iron oxide powder to make thermite." Sherlock replied.

"Why?" was all the boy said in response. Sherlock was delighted, it wasn't every day he was invited to talk about a particularly interesting subject. He didn't even notice that John had spotted the gleam in his eye and was giving his "here we go again" look, he just turned to the child and clapped his hands together.

"Well, I got this iron oxide from a crime scene yesterday and I need to check that it really is iron oxide, so I'm proving it is by putting it into a reaction which looks quite distinctive in order to demonstrate exactly what it is so that we might solve a crime," Sherlock said, and he watched Joseph's eyes gleam in the way his own were.

"Sherlock, he doesn't need to know about that..." John began, but again he may as well have been trying to stop a parade of tanks with a feather for all it did to persuade Sherlock to shut up.

"Iron oxide itself is incredibly interesting, even disregarding the fact that it can be used in such a spectacular reaction," Sherlock continued. "This particular kind (if it actually proves to be common Iron III oxide, or Fe2O3) is also found in a lot of places, it's known as rust and formed when various iron objects are exposed to water for a long period of time. That's what the brown stuff coating iron objects is." John rolled his eyes, but Sherlock didn't notice.

"Aluminium is also enthralling," Sherlock said quickly, clapping his hands together again in excitement and starting to bounce up and down himself. "The metal is the third most abundant element and the most abundant metal in the Earth's crust. For such a strong material it is very light and therefore extremely useful in transport, in addition to being a very good electrical and thermal conductor. Of course, the Americans will insist on calling the element "aluminum," but it is preferable to include the second "I", after all the International Union of Pure and Applied Chemistry prefers it themselves and what they say goes." Sherlock smiled at Molly, who had apparently appeared out of nowhere and was now standing in front of Sherlock. "Hello, Molly, I was just explaining to your delightful nephew why the components of thermite are so endlessly fascinating. Anyway, to start the extremely exothermic reaction one must use magnesium which itself produces a lot of thermal and light energy when it is burned..."

"It's all right, Molly," John said over Sherlock's lecture. "You can take Joseph, Sherlock won't even notice that his audience has gone." Molly smiled gratefully at him and proceeded to lead the boy out of the room.

"That's lovely, Sherlock, why don't you tell me about what happens when you burn magnesium?" John said, knowing that although he was bored stupid by Sherlock's rambling and repetitive sermon on the history of chemistry the best thing to do was just to listen, smile, nod and ask the right questions.

Sherlock allowed John to put the thermite mixture into a separate container and pack it away, leading him back out of the laboratory to go home to test the stuff as he began enumerating the discovery of the transition metals. Sherlock could certainly talk for hours about the subject (it helped him to consolidate his knowledge and keep his mind palace organised, after all) and he was glad that John understood: he was the first person Sherlock had found who was willing to endure his infodumps instead of unfairly triggering one and then ordering him to shut up, as the rest of the world did.

Later, as the pair were sitting in the flat and Sherlock had finally shut up about a load of elements John had never heard of, a thought occurred to John.

"Sherlock, isn't iron magnetic?"

"Yes, John."

"Okay, then, is that rust magnetic? I can't think of any reason why the extra oxygen would stop it from being magnetic..."

Sherlock sighed. "That's because it doesn't. Iron oxide is ferromagnetic." He noticed John scowling.

"You made up that whole experiment just because melting a hole in the kitchen table is far more exciting than holding a magnet to the powder, didn't you?"

Sherlock's face instantaneously contorted into a huge smirk. John himself descended into giggles, and Sherlock knew it was because John had twigged early on that the best strategy with him was sometimes (or always) just to smile and nod.


	4. Sensory Overload - Texture

4.

"JOHN!" Sherlock yelled, lounging on the sofa with his friend's laptop on his lap.

"Yes, Sherlock?" came a quiet response from the other side of the room. Hmm. Sherlock hadn't even noticed John was still in the living room.

Sherlock closed the laptop and stared at John accusingly. "Why is there no tortelloni in the flat?"

John looked perplexed. Of course he did, he was simultaneously trying to work out exactly what tortelloni was and contemplating why Sherlock had suddenly started asking for food.

"Because I didn't know you wanted any," John offered as an explanation. "Actually, I was going to go to Tesco tomorrow afternoon, if you want anything you'd better let me know."

Sherlock frowned. "I don't think you understand, John, I really want tortelloni now."

John sighed. "You know what? I can make the shopping trip this afternoon instead but only if you come with me. Yeah, you can help me to look for stuff. You can also pick out your own tortelloni because I haven't the foggiest what type you'd want."

"But I really don't want to go to Tesco," Sherlock retorted with a pout.

"Then you can do without your tortelloni. What do you want it for, anyway? Some mad experiment to do with how long you can boil it for before the filling turns into mush and completely disperses through the water?"

"Actually, I intended to eat it," Sherlock said matter-of-factly, and John's eyes widened with astonishment. Yes, John, I intend to eat on a case. I just really want a certain kind of pasta for no real reason. Don't look so surprised.

"Well, then, we're definitely bringing that trip forward," John said, standing up. Sherlock was suddenly aware that his coat had been thrown over him and John was dragging him upright by the arm.

"No, John..." Sherlock began, crossing his arms and anchoring himself to the settee as firmly as he possibly could.

"I can't believe you just carried me down the road to Tesco's..." Sherlock grumbled, as soon as John let him out of his fireman's lift in front of the supermarket.

"Well, you clearly weren't going to walk yourself so I thought I may as well do that for you," John pointed out. "Now, if you try to run away I'll put you on the thing mothers use to stop their children from escaping, and we have already established that I am stronger than you." Sherlock's customary pout returned and John grabbed a basket by the door. The pair walked into the building and Sherlock's ears were promptly accosted by the sound of a grating voice over the tannoy requesting that "all amber cardholders to support checkout," whatever that meant. Sherlock winced.

"All right, then, you can go and look for whatever it was you wanted and then if you could go and get four pints of semi-skimmed milk, a box of six large eggs, chilled orange juice and maybe a pizza. You can choose what type," John said, as Sherlock internally panicked. No John you can't just abandon me in this noisy place full of people to find things I really have no idea where everything is kept...

John took off for the produce aisles on their right-hand side leaving Sherlock to make his way to the dairy department at the back of the shop. Sherlock marched up the electronics aisle, spotting the sign from the ceiling that read "milk" and headed for aisle twenty-seven. As soon as he got there he was confronted by the frankly rather intimidating sight of an entire row of various kinds of milk.

John said four pints of semi-skimmed. is semi-skimmed the blue, green or red? Logic dictates that it must be the green because it is between the red and blue but people are so illogical it could really be any. Even so, there are so many different brands of the green it could really be any. Oh, damn, there's also a purple bottle over there that says semi-skimmed. Why can't people just stick with one brand and be logical? There's really no need for this many...

Sherlock eventually grabbed a green bottle with the word "pure" on it (If it's been filtered it'll last longer and give me more excuses for experiments). He turned around and noticed that the orange juice was also conveniently situated on this aisle. After having settled on a carton, Sherlock walked back to the space separating the two halves of the shop and decided to turn left, observing the increasing aisle numbers. At that moment the grating voice came on the tannoy again, demanding that "all shop-floor staff to attend rumble," which could really have meant anything.

When he reached aisle thirty, he spotted a large display of various types of eggs. Obviously John specified six large eggs, but these ones here are BLUE, Sherlock thought, stealing the stool a small girl with long hair in a Tesco uniform was currently using to take the empty cardboard boxes down from the top shelf.

"Excuse me," the girl said nervously, avoiding eye-contact with Sherlock as best she could. "Customers aren't really supposed to be using the stools, do you want me to reach something for you?" Sherlock thought this was hilarious, especially considering this girl must be more than a foot shorter than him, but he saw for himself that there were no more containers of blue eggs in the box so he admitted defeat.

"No, there's nothing up there I want," Sherlock said coldly, eyeing the duck eggs on a lower shelf.

"I suspect you'd have just as must luck reaching anything up there without a stool as I would with it," the girl said, giving an uneasy laugh. Ha, she sounds like Molly after she's made one of her terrible jokes, Sherlock thought. The girl returned to tearing the empty boxes up as Sherlock plucked a box of duck eggs off the shelf. Sherlock winced with every ripping noise emanating from the cardboard, and noticed that the girl had abandoned her gloves and was grimacing every time her fingernails scraped the box. Sherlock didn't blame her, even the thought of his fingernails scraping cardboard was enough to make him cringe.

"You too?" Sherlock asked, gesturing to the cardboard. The girl nodded glumly. "Probably best to leave your gloves on, in that case," Sherlock said, handing the girl her navy gloves which had been lying on the self.

"It's only a disadvantage when you factor in the rest of the world, and really, who cares about them?" the girl replied awkwardly. Sherlock laughed humourlessly.

"Could you tell me where the tortelloni is?" he asked. Best to minimise my time spent in this shop, I don't particularly enjoy making forced conversation with employees who obviously don't feel comfortable talking to their customers more than necessary either, Sherlock thought.

"Yes, that's on aisle twenty-three," the girl replied, giving Sherlock a pleasant enough smile. Sherlock gave her a nod before hurriedly tearing off in the direction she indicated, weaving in between the old ladies with trolleys and the small children holding their mothers' hands.

When he reached aisle twenty-three and was greeted by the sight of a wide selection of tortelloni Sherlock got rather carried away. Excellent, I must buy one of each of the twenty types he thought, picking up an abandoned basket that had been lying in the corner and putting his groceries into it. He turned on his heel to go and look for John, before the sound of a screaming toddler from the next aisle over penetrated his thoughts and everything left Sherlock's mind except the thought of MAKE IT STOP CRYING. Of course, sod's law being what it is seemingly every child in the shop took the already screaming toddler as an excuse to start wailing themselves.

Sherlock ran out of the aisle and towards the grocery section of the shop to look for John (he's out of jam and that's always buried under stuff in the plastic bags so he doesn't buy it last, he gave me fewer objects than he's getting himself because he reasoned it would take me longer to find everything than it would for him and because I asked the girl I saved time) when the tannoy started talking again.

"Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen, welcome to our store. This is a customer announcement..."

Sherlock didn't even notice John was on the same aisle until he'd run into him.

"John, I'm bored and all the babies are screaming and I thought about scratching cardboard and I think I'd rather like to go home now," Sherlock said all in one breath.

"I see you found the tortelloni," John quipped, eyeing the plethora of pasta in Sherlock's own basket. "Oh, I was thinking hen's eggs, but I suppose these will do if you don't mind paying for them. What happened to the pizza I told you to get?"

"I forgot," Sherlock said unabashedly, restlessly glancing towards the exit.

"Well, there are still some things I need to get so you'll have to wait for a bit," John pointed out, as Sherlock scowled.

"But John, cardboard..." Sherlock pleaded, steepling his fingers and pressing them together with as much force as he could. That makes the sensation brought on by the thought go away faster, yes, it does.

John raised an eyebrow at Sherlock, but when the latter started wringing his hands and spun in a circle John just sighed. "All right, I didn't have very much left to get anyway, and I suppose we have enough bread to live on for a few days," he conceded, as Sherlock's eyes lit up and he started bouncing down the aisle towards the tills, his hands still pressed together.

As John smiled at the middle-aged lady on the check-out, Sherlock tried his best to tune out the beeps and whirrs being given off by the till and receipt printer, but to no avail. Sherlock noticed that an avocado had gone through the till and grabbed it as soon as the lady relinquished it. His eyes lit up even further.

"John, you got me an avocado?" he asked, eyeing the fruit.

"Yes, you can feel it," John said, picking it up and handing it to Sherlock, before he returned to putting the groceries into plastic bags.

As Sherlock ran his hands over the avocado the sensation brought on by the memory of fingernails on cardboard vanished, to be replaced by the interesting and pleasant waxy texture of the fruit with its raised bumps. Yes, John had done well to anticipate far enough in advance to buy it, but Sherlock was also pleased that John had taken it upon himself to learn Sherlock's favourite textured things to placate him. It really did make life much easier.


	5. Disruption of Routine

5.

"So all along it was the wife's best friend? Who'd have thought?" John asked, grinning, as he and Sherlock climbed the stairs after having successfully closed a case.

"I did," Sherlock retorted, and the pair descended into giggles as Sherlock placed his right hand on the doorknob and breezed into the living room.

The living room which had been completely tidied and rearranged in their absence.

Sherlock felt the smile slide off his face as surely as his brain was screaming. NO NO NO NO NO NO NO where has everything gone? It's all too different and it just doesn't look right and how on Earth am I supposed to find anything I'm looking for now and SERIOUSLY where has everything disappeared too, has it all been thrown out? NO there might have been important stuff there I need and WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO MY EXPERIMENTS? I put ALL that time into them and now they've just disappeared for good and now I'll never get my results and so many cases could potentially go unsolved and I'll have to live with that uncertainty...

Sherlock barely noticed John bracing himself as he stuck his head out of the door and yelled "MRS. HUDSON!" The long-suffering landlady came scurrying up the stairs and just as she was about to open her mouth to speak Sherlock began on his own outburst.

"WHAT POSSESSED YOU TO COMPLETELY RUIN THE ROOM? I DARESAY YOU ALSO SAW DISTURBED MY SOCK INDEX? TELL ME YOU HAVEN'T BEEN AT MY BEDROOM TOO, I HAD SOME VERY IMPORTANT EXPERIMENTS IN THERE..." Sherlock could feel himself shaking, but not just in anger - there was something else inexplicable Sherlock was usually rather good at keeping out.

"But dear, the place was such a mess, there were things growing in here..."

"THAT WAS THE POINT!" roared Sherlock. "I THOUGHT YOU WEREN'T OUR HOUSEKEEPER ANYWAY!"

"I'm not, deary, but I do worry about your health," Mrs. Hudson said. "Even if you don't care about your own health you can't expect poor John to suffer too..."

"That's all right, Mrs. Hudson," John said calmly, watching Sherlock worriedly. "Your efforts are appreciated, but I'll take it from here."

"Yes, that's probably for the best," Mrs. Hudson said as Sherlock collapsed onto the sofa with his arms clasped around his knees, and started rocking back and forth. "I'll be downstairs if you need me."

"Thank you," John said, closing the door after Mrs Hudson. When the sound of her shuffling slippers had disappeared and Sherlock heard her door closing downstairs he burst into tears.

"It's okay, Sherlock," John said, extending his hand for a second and resting it reassuringly on Sherlock's shoulder when the latter didn't swat it away.

"No, John, it's not," Sherlock sniffled. "Everything is different and I liked having that certainty that I would be able to find anything exactly when the thought occurred to me to look for it and a lot of my hard work has vanished probably never to be seen again and this is all just too much. Too much change in one go is very bad." Sherlock wiped his nose in his own knee (I don't even care about my trousers, I can always get Mycroft to dry-clean them or something) and John looked at him with a pitying expression.

"DON'T PITY ME!" Sherlock screamed, burying his face in his trousers, more tears dripping from his eyes.

"Sherlock, it's fine," John said as calmly as possible. "It's all fine. Look, I am going to give you a hug. If you're not all right with that, let me know in the next five seconds." Sherlock said nothing and, as promised, five seconds later he felt John's arms around him and Sherlock took his face out of his knees and pressed it into his friend's fluffy-jumpered shoulder.

Despite Sherlock's lack of understanding on the topic of other people's personal space, he generally disliked being touched to such an extent that he once ended up in a holding cell for two hours for threatening to stab Anderson in the jugular with a fountain pen when he accidentally brushed against the consulting detective walking through a door. However, Sherlock found that he had absolutely no objection to John firmly holding him with just the right amount of pressure, and even found that he felt... safe. John was giving him something to concentrate on that overrode the chaos in his head screaming for the room to go back to normal, and the conflict he felt knowing that it just couldn't. All of Sherlock's negative thought processes were being replaced by the sensation of safety and comfort he was receiving from John, who was forming a barrier and shutting out the nasty world in a way that almost nothing else was able to.

Sherlock lost count of how long John's arms stayed enveloping him, but a few minutes after he was aware he had stopped crying John let go, still gently grasping his arms, and examined Sherlock's tear-stained visage. "Are you going to be all right now? I know it frustrates you but it will all be okay."

Sherlock nodded jerkily, raising one corner of his mouth in an uncertain looking half-smile. "Thank you, John," he said, pulling a tissue out of his pocket and noisily blowing his nose on it.

"I'm rather glad you saved that one up, I'm rather fond of this jumper," John remarked. He immediately started giggling and it may have taken a couple of seconds, but Sherlock found that he was able to join in. John really had done a remarkable job of clearing his head, which wasn't a claim that could be held by anybody else.


	6. Meltdown

+1

Sherlock wasn't even aware of what he was saying, he was so focused on his racing thoughts that the inn could have been going up in flames around him for all he was aware.

The hound MUST be real because I saw it with my own eyes but I can't have seen it because it is not possible, it can't logically exist. However, it must exist because I saw it and my eyes don't lie, but there is no way I could have.

Round and round the logic went, a paradox burning itself out as Sherlock repeated the circle searching for some extraneous thread that would provide an exit and explain how both of the solutions were possible. Sherlock had spent so much time learning to rely on and completely trust his perception that the possibility of his being deceived by it was unthinkable and caused him a great deal of mental conflict.

Sherlock knew he was saying something and he could hear John talking to him in response but didn't notice what either of them were saying, all of his brain's computational power was being dedicated to finding a solution to the paradox to such an extent that he simply didn't have the resources available to properly process the conversation - he just had to solve the paradox, he couldn't deal with something so illogical existing, unsolved, in his head.

All Sherlock could analyse from his surroundings was that his conversation with John was making him more and more tense, a sensation aided by the frustration Sherlock felt with the paradox of the hound. Suddenly, Sherlock was aware of the words "I don't have friends," bursting from his lungs, and the paradox cycle slowed slightly to allow Sherlock to see John's face properly. Even Sherlock could read facial expressions well enough to understand that he had hurt John.

"No. Wonder why?" John responded shortly, before turning on his heel and leaving the room.

Sherlock wanted to go after him, he really did, but he found himself physically incapable of abandoning his train of thought to so much as stand up. "There is nothing wrong with me, and that is absolutely the truth," Sherlock reminded himself as the paradox picked up speed and was added to with the repetition of the words come back, John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anybody who didn't read the additional tags, these chapters have been based on symptoms of Asperger syndrome, which is something I personally have and that it is widely acknowledged Sherlock probably has in both the canon and the BBC adaptation (I'm not overly familiar with other adaptations, I admit). I wanted to write a story incorporating some actual accounts of the syndrome (for instance, the scenario in chapter five was based on an incident just a couple of weeks ago in which my parents invaded my room while I was at work, went through absolutely everything and "tidied up", by which I mean "threw loads of stuff out and broke my microscope," but I didn't have a John so I was stuck fuming with nothing to distract me) and to possibly help people to understand Aspergers and Sherlock a bit better. (Though of course I shan't be so arrogant as to claim to completely understand the character, just that I may have a bit more insight than most I wanted to share.)
> 
> It is also probably worth noting that not all of these symptoms are actually shown in the canon or canon-canon (I hope that makes as much sense to you as it does to me) but some are implied - for example, in the BBC adaptation of Hounds Sherlock tries to disorientate John with the bright lights and loud noises which can be seen as an indication that that is what would disorientate him, and he assumes it would be the same with John. (Just speculation, of course, but it makes the most sense to me.)
> 
> My personal headcanon is that John's pretty good at dealing with Sherlock because as a GP he recognised the symptoms - here in the UK a general practitioner is often the first place you go with suspected Aspergers if you want a diagnosis because they can refer you to specialists. Well, that's what happened with me, anyway.
> 
> For those who aren't really interested in the above explanation, the story also serves as a Johnlock bromance. I gave you a Johnlock brohug, be happy. :D


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